


Toilet Horror

by Water_Slime (Fire_Slime)



Category: Legend of Zelda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, F/M, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Reincarnation, ghost-Zelda, launcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-10-30 03:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Slime/pseuds/Water_Slime
Summary: Despite the title, not a crude fic.  I'm looking for a better title.  Modern au, in which Zelda's ghost reflects incessantly on the present and the past, in a world that has passed her by.  Launcher fic.Tracking number for this 'fic is #44.





	1. entry 1: sometimes in Hesount

**Author's Note:**

> originally published under the name _Toilet Horror_ on FF.net.  
finished July 2019.

entry 1: sometime in Hesount

It is a maddening experience, this waiting, unable to interact with people (for the most part), trapped, unseen, unheard, unperceived. I spend my days idly waiting to come upon purpose, for purpose to come upon me. And now, I have snapped, and picked up a notebook that was incinerated in a fire, and a liquefied bottle of ink, and a quill that has long since shed all its down, broken, died.

As I am dead, they are the easiest things to touch, those things that are themselves dead. Sometimes, I wonder that I did not yield to madness long ago. Sometimes, I think I did. When this happened, always before, there were things to see, to watch, to learn. Now, I take solace in recording my thoughts in this journal, which I have stolen from the ashes that surround it. No one will miss it; it was empty before the fire, and now, there is nothing about it, within it, and nothing comprises it.

A fitting place of record for a ghost girl.

I was not always a ghost, of course; it is my punishment for failure, perhaps; my warning against hubris and incaution, perhaps; a test of stamina, perhaps; that I watch the world move on, and time roll by without me, as I reflect back upon the past, and better days.

All those myriad better days, so many I can't recall them all, for many of them belong to a life before my last, and certain barriers remain even in death. Perhaps I could learn to break down those barriers, and sometimes, I pick at them, but eventually, I lose my courage, and abandon the attempt, sometimes with a new fragment of memory. But always, I wonder if a full knowledge of _all_ that I have had, in the sum total of my past, would not drive me mad in truth. Those tiny slivers I have chipped away suggest I once lived in a glorious world of clear blue skies, vibrant towns, and verdant fields of endless green. A world at peace, with many happy, prosperous people, who were happy with their lives.

Nothing, in other words, like how it has been these past few centuries.

I spend most of the time by myself, a dead girl trapped at whatever age I had managed to reach, whatever maturity level, before it ended again, my connection severed, I mean. No. I will say it plainly. I remain at whatever age I was when _he_ died, the last time. I only age once we have been reunited, you see. Neither a perk nor a drawback of being a ghost. My age always resets, falls back to more closely mirror his.

And he's usually about thirteen.

Evil arises every few centuries, with no predictable pattern save for that distinctive growing dread, the way the world fades out around me, and I have premonitions of the disasters that might come, if _he_ does not rise again to defend us. And, shame on me, but I have grown to see it as my only moment to look forward to; I anticipate the arrival of the visions with eager ardour, anticipating the reunion to come, glad once again to have the outward trappings of life, glad again to be able to speak freely with another.

Once per cycle, I may make myself known to _one_ person, independently of that bond. I have long since learnt not to squander it. I save that interaction until after our reunion, lest I choose to make myself known to _him_ before he is ready (in all innocence!) and squander the opportunity for another to hear my voice, to see my translucent form.

I was alive once, but I do not recall it well any longer. For millennia, it has been as it is, and time, and the world, have passed me by. I don't understand the use of half of the institutions I see around me. I don't understand electricity. I don't understand school. I don't understand sports, or television, or computers. They are as real to me as I to them.

I live, if such it can be called, I _exist_, only for the reunion to come, when at last, there will be someone to see _me_, hear _me_, understand _me_, listen _to me_. And he is always patient, always kind, always understands, for he remembers even at the start, always, at least a little, and he guides me through it, with his great courage.

And after a few decades only, usually, he has been slain, always valiantly, always in combat, and the world loses its interest for me. I wander idly, waiting, waiting, mired so deeply in grief that I don't know that I'm grieving, only that, suddenly, there is no warmth or goodness anywhere in the world.

How will this world change, if we ever triumph? Millennia ago, I entertained the question, now and then, but I have since decided that triumph is impossible; we shall never win. He will never let me dissuade him from trying, anyway (he is valiant, after all), and he will die, far too young, far too soon, and I shall be alone, again, for the next few centuries.

It is a wonder I _haven't_ gone mad, come to it.

I jolt out of a state of pseudo-somnolence (lethargy, not sleep, a heavy weight that prevents proper function), only when fear drowns out the previous torment, and I see the impending disaster, which we almost always manage to avert, though we might fail to stop every thereafter.

That greater evil, the threat behind the threats, the source of them all, the origin of the world's despair, remains sequestered in his safe haven; we have not come against him since the day I died, millennia ago. To face him again, we would need to demolish the evils he has installed throughout the world, lure _him_ out of hiding, that one who slew me long ago.

Maybe, then, I would live again.

It will never happen.

It is hard enough, chasing down the rabble, wishing that there were more that I could do to assist, as I could, long ago, when I had a body of my own. I can still move things, use magic, but the ability is limited, and sometimes seems good for little more than sleight-of-hand, for entertainment.

He assures me that I am very helpful. He tells me that he always missed me too, even before he remembered. Somehow, he always knows—he has _always_ known—how to make me feel better. He is my strength, the most genuinely good person in the world, and I still love him—how could I not?—despite how many times we have been made to start over again, from scratch. Surely, I have paid my penance now. Surely, the goddesses will take pity on me, give me the reunion I most desire, but can never have.

I am very selfish, aren't I? Perhaps any would be, whose existence was like mine. This crushing loneliness might make a nobler woman than I into a jealous little monster. And I don't think I'm that bad, yet.

Maybe I'll think better of it all, tomorrow. Don't count on it.

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of the legendary realm of Hyrule~-~


	2. entry 2

entry 2: the next day, whenever that is. I think it's still Hesount

I was in a very bad mood the last time, wasn't I? Very retrospective. But I just can't help it. Mine is a desolate existence, and I suppose my journals reflect that. If nothing else, this is cathartic.

But I left you, my non-existent audience, wondering what it is that I _do_ all day! I shall pretend that you are a person, and talk to you as I would one. That would certainly be different!

Well, diary, don't think that I'm behaving like a stalker for saying this but…well, I spend quite a bit of time after the first premonition comes seeking out for Link. You see, there is a gap of usually about a decade between the first premonition, and Link's return (actually closer to thirteen years, but who's counting? Other than I?).

It's become almost a game to me—to see how soon, how quickly, I can pick him out, with only a general knowledge of when he was born (about the time of my first premonition), and only the vaguest notion of when he's in the area (I know if we're in the same province, usually). With the advent of schools, those vast halls of education and learning, it has become a simpler matter of visiting every school in the province, and narrowing things down thus. Of course, there are many more children around now than there were millennia ago.

It is still quite the challenge, but I pride myself on doing well. There is always some deep part of me that recognises him—my subconscious always _knows_ him, no matter how he looks, when I see him. Sometimes, I don't recognise my own subconscious reactions until after that big revelation, when I can put the pieces together, and see how I knew all along. My conscious self is also in on the game, trying to figure out the same thing; sometimes it's wrong; sometimes it's right, but my subconscious _always_ knows.

Unlike me, he is allowed a wider variety of appearance. His awakening involves a metamorphosis to standardise his appearance. When I died, he had straw blond hair, and blue eyes. It heads towards that as a standard. I think once, he was reborn with black hair, and violet eyes, and the eyes shifted to blue, but that was the only time he had brown hair. I'm not sure however. Maybe that never happened, and my mind made it up one day (or over a series of decades), when I was bored and lonely. He's been reborn quite often since I've died. I can't be expected to remember his initial appearance every time.

I mention all this only because I have found his newest incarnation (yes, I know that last time I wrote as if he hadn't been reborn, yet! Quiet!). He must be this boy with black hair, named Farador, in Missus Naleat's homeroom; he has the right attitude of diligence, the quiet regard for others so familiar to me. His hair is black, and his eyes are dark, and often clouded with worry.

He has a lot to worry about. School has reached that point for him (he's about thirteen, although I don't know specifically how old he is) when it suddenly quadruples in difficulty. His parents are having problems in their marriage, he has very few (read: no) friends, and is a favourite target of bullies, such as that broad-shouldered idiot, Bowel.

Ah. Well, diary, I don't know what world I think you come from, but I seemed to think that I needed to explain everything else to you, so here I go. Here in Honalle, that is all that remains of Hyrule, it is customary for children to choose their own names three times. The third name they choose will be the one they live the rest of their lives with (well, there is a system of petitions for legally changing it after, but few do…).

Their parents give them a name, and they're called by that name until they come of school age (which is about five). Then, they choose a name to be called there. These are usually short, silly names without any sort of meanings, such as Bab, and Rit, and Morc—baby talk sorts of names. There are anomalies, the province of the precocious, and I don't know if Farador was one. Perhaps he was; I only found him a few months (or maybe a few years?) ago. People tend to underestimate Link, but he's very smart. I should know.

They choose another name at age eight—a sort of reprieve from their earlier folly, an escape from the teasing sure to come of keeping such a childish sounding name. Normal children choose names from history that they admire: great rulers, like Karthahwila, the athletic queen of what was once Rudia, a land since annexed by Honalle, Qehatak, the renowned explorer-trader, or Heret, after the famed musician. Others choose ordinary names full of tradition, as Farador's, and Ruto and Dinasdir—names that have long cultural standing.

But there are always rebels, like Bowel. He chose his name (and made it obvious), as a rude gesture to the entire system. You could _see_ how horrified the assembly were at the audacity of a child choosing such a crude name, and how pleased he is with his choice every time a teacher, with a grimace, frowns, purses his lips, and forces out the detested name.

Even people who usually call students only by their given names call him by his surname.

But enough about him. The third name is chosen at about age thirteen, in a great ceremony, and is meant to be kept for the rest of your lifetime. Link always remembers before then, and I can't think of a single time he chose another name than "Link". It is _his_. Somehow, no one ever seems to dare to take the name who _isn't_ Link.

Even if his parents are ignorant of the legend, they somehow always end up naming him Link, too. I don't know how it works. But, you see, that puts me at something of a deadline. I must make my choice as to whom Link is, and I shall learn whether or not I am right, at the very latest, on that day.

And it is almost time for that day to arrive. It is _this very year_. And after the ceremony, there will be a brief period of time—enough, grace of the goddesses, for Link and me to adjust, and then the world will be thrown into the madness of chaos, as evil seeks for to expand its rule, and we work as a team to drive it back.

In preparation for this event, knowing, in whatever way the officials _always_ know that Link is to arise again (I think I used to know, but have since forgotten), the teachers drill those of about the proper age in the history of the old legends of Hyrule, that year. They bring up my story, and urge their unruly students to pay me the respect that I deserve, for I am the princess, heiress and rightful ruler of this realm, and worthy of their respect. Farador nodded eagerly at this pronouncement, and was even _more_ excited when he heard that I would be myself present at the ceremony wherein names are chosen.

The teacher sighed in exasperation, and shook her head, and I wondered if she was a member of one of the old detractor families.

Bowel, raising his hand for once, asked if I was pretty, and when the teacher said she didn't know (I was practically fuming by this point), he shrugged, and said. "Well, I don't know if it was worth it, then, that guy who rescued her. I'm not sure she was worth his time."

As I said, he's an idiot. Things nearly got violent then, because Farador seemed determined to rise to anger on my behalf. He gave Bowel his best icy glare, which flew right over the other boy's head. I might have thought the boy was just trying to be cool if I hadn't overheard his grades discussed in the teacher's lounge. He's practically failing school. So, he can't help being an idiot. Those words are, however, small consolation to my wounded ego, which has little enough to feed it. Farador's rousing defence of me ("Does it even _matter_ whether or not she's pretty; there's more to people than appearance, you know! And from what I've heard, she was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the world!") made me smile. It was very Link.

The teacher wrested back control over her lesson after that, so I had no more chance to see what might have come of his argument, had Farador been allowed to continue. Nevertheless, I have made my choice (albeit unofficially), and what remains is to see what comes of it. All will be made clear come 42 Dalir, whenever that is. Just what day is today, anyway?

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of the legendary kingdom of Hyrule~-~


	3. entry 3

entry 3: four days later (which is 38 Invir, as it turns out)

Hello again, diary! How are you doing, today? Myself, not so well. I hope you don't mind if I complain to you for a while. It's just been one of those days. Well, not one of _those days_ those days, as in my first entry. But Farador had quite a few troubles today, and as I am living vicariously through him, that means my day was also poor. That is how friendship is, and, although we have never spoken, I reckon that we're friends. Surely it counts, if I feel this strongly about it.

How did it start, you ask? Well, it was at school, naturally. Farador habitually sequesters himself off in a deserted classroom for lunchtime, but today, his classroom was locked, and his only recourse was to take his meal outside. The problem is, he is forever carrying his books even to lunch with him—books he checked out from the library, I mean, both the school library, and the one near his house (yes, I know where he lives! No, that _doesn't_ make me a stalker!). He reads these as he eats, studying whatever he fancies at the time.

Right now, it warms my heart to note that he is studying the old myths and legends of the Triforce, and the cycle of legend. They have been studying it ever since first term started (which was, I think, a few months ago). You can tell he's fascinated by the entire thing by the way he bends over, reading page after page at a time, until he remembers his lunch again. Then, he takes a bite, and returns to his reading. At this rate, he might starve to death before he comes of third name-bearing. That would never do.

But outside, you need to be much more careful about library books, of course. It hasn't snowed in months—we're out of the season for it, after all—but it's started raining instead, and that's worse, when it comes to library books. Hyrule had its vast plains full of verdant grass, and the grass remains on the school's hills, and elsewhere, where the city permits it. But grass is _not_ sufficient protection against wet _or_ mud.

He knew this, of course. Whether Bowel was smart enough to realise it, or not, I can't tell. I doubt it. It's not only his bad grades that show how stupid he is, but it's small wonder. His parents are also idiots, and his father's a crook, so he's hardly around. Even the teachers despair of teaching Bowel—and not just for the most obvious reasons. He's a juvenile delinquent in the making.

He proved it by throwing Farador's books in the mud, library books or no, pretending to read through them, but in fact squinting and tilting the largest of the books at an odd angle. It is one of those expensive, broad books, with glossy paper and high-quality illustrations in it. You know, the very expensive kind, rare and hard to replace. I winced on Farador's behalf as he stared numbly at the ruined book, as if he couldn't believe what had happened, and then snatched it up. It was already too late.

But, like Link, he is very nonconfrontational. He just sort of stared, numb to the world, if I'm any judge, and Bowel stood there and smirked, as I glared at him, unseen, fists clenched in a senseless gesture. I considered revealing myself, but wasn't sure to whom I would have revealed myself. That is probably the only reason I didn't. I might have revealed myself to Farador, to comfort him, or to Bowel, to avenge Farador.

When Bowel realised that Farador, in his state of shock, wasn't responding, he went and left Farador to pick up his pile of ruined library books, with me glaring holes in Bowel's back, wishing that I could do something to help.

Then, I remembered that I had magic. I gently reached down to the big picture-bookish book, and passed a glowing blue hand over it, wiping off the dirt and mud without needing to touch it, restoring the pages to how they had been before. A magician's sleight-of-hand, a parlour trick, others might say, of these tiny magics, but they have their uses, as now, here, when I could spare Farador at least a little suffering. Don't tell me that there are plenty others in similar situations, and do I also help them? No. But I can't be everywhere at once, and it is my duty to save and protect the world, not to soothe everyone's hurts, and cure all of their ills. I helped, here, and felt good about myself for doing it. I don't think I'm wrong to feel thus.

Farador didn't see the magic in action, too busy picking up the other books, which were smaller, and had been closed, and had taken much less damage. I knew he despaired of what he could do about the big book I had fixed, and was deliberately not looking at it, as if the problem would go away if he ignored it.

He stuffed the last of his books into his schoolbag with a sigh and a little frown, and then turned to the book I had fixed, and froze. For a few moments, he stared, and then he slowly, gingerly reached out to the book, as if the pages were edged in poison, and a single papercut might kill. He laid a shaking hand on the pristine page he had left open which had, on the left, a huge picture of a tapestry of the Triforce floating in the sky, and, on the right, a few pictures with Ganon, in various forms.

His head snapped up, and he peered around, seeking for an answer to an unanswerable question, ran his hand down the dry, healthy pages, a look of awe replacing the fear, as if he realised that the fix was permanent. I smiled to myself, despite the other, ruined books that I wouldn't be able to fix. I did make his burden a bit lighter, didn't I? And nothing prevents me from helping in other ways of a similar sort.

Of course, he still got in trouble for the other books, but it was much less expensive and painful a penance than he would otherwise have suffered. Bowel, of course, despite being the true culprit, was not punished at all.

I admired Farador for not explaining that the books had not been ruined because of his own carelessness, but rather because of a bully. Still, I fumed and fretted in turns, watching Farador as, white-faced and shaking, he struggled to break the news to his parents, who united, as parents will, to scold him for the folly of bringing such books outside to begin with. It was no use explaining to them that he had only done this because his usual spot was barred to him, and that he would hardly have brought his books to lunch if he'd had the forewarning. His parents don't listen to such explanations.

He just bowed his head, and bore the tongue-lashing that followed, and then retreated to his room, spreading out the paperback books to dry, trying to salvage what he could, setting aside the hard covers, which were damaged only in the corners. He sighed, fists clenched, a glare belatedly gracing his face, too late to do him any good, and he sat, for a while, head bowed, resting on his clasped hands, and then I _saw_ the memory strike him.

He dredged out the book I had restored, opened it, turned through every page individually in a rapid rustling of swiftly-turned pages, as he stared.

Ah. He'd thought that he'd mistaken his page, before, and _that_ was why the book wasn't covered in mud, as it ought.

"How…?" he asked, running his hand down the page in question, again.

"How?", indeed. Still, it was not a true victory. Farador still suffered, he just suffered _less_ than he ought. The school fined his parents, and assigned him a number of detentions, and then his parents grounded him, and took away his allowance until the books are paid for again.

I seethed, inwardly, because there is nowhere else _to_ seethe, silly, but knew that it was too late to fix the rest of the books. Doubtless, if he brought them back in, undamaged, they'd just assume he'd stolen new ones, and was claiming that they were the same books.

I don't care how old I am; sometimes I think adults are really stupid.

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of Hyrule~-~


	4. entry 4

entry 4: 39 Invir

Now I know what day it is, I know that there is only about a month left until the great ceremony. I have very little time—about fifty days. But look up at my header for this entry—day _and_ month, just like an ordinary girl's journal! I'm rather pleased with myself for that little bit of normalcy.

Missus Naleat's class went to a museum, today. Or rather, the warehouse repository of legendary artefacts. That particular trip, or what I overheard, has put me in something of a mood.

All this time, I hadn't realised just how far the modern world had departed from that I knew when I was alive. Missus Naleat is not a member of an old detracting family (at least, not that I know of). She just doesn't believe that I exist.

It's something of a crushing blow, despite the fact that I little value her opinion, or the workers with whom she was discussing the upcoming ceremony when I happened to be eavesdropping. What is so…disheartening, is that the view is, apparently, commonplace. The signs and portents all point to Link's rebirth, and my "return", but for them, it is nothing but quaint superstition. It is, however, a law that they must behave as if it is real towards those of age, until the ceremony is over. That is the only reason why Naleat did not introduce it as "mere ceremony and superstition" from the start. But, among the employees of the museum, she was free to speak her mind.

For them, it is merely a matter of law and tradition, the way you knock on someone's door before you enter their rooms because it is polite, or as all those little meaningless holidays celebrating the goddesses that have lost their religious significance anymore. Apparently, few people believe in any of it anymore. The average person doesn't know that the Triforce, the Master Sword, the legendary hero, in his various quests, or even I, are real. We are historical personages to them, ones who perhaps ruled or fought off an encroaching army, and nothing more. Mere politics with "romantic fantasy" trappings overlaid upon it. No real magic. No real gods. No real Ganon. All a story, an oversimplification, a metaphor.

Zelda was a historical personage, sure, but she died long ago, and the royal line ended with her, and we live in a better world now for it.

How _can_ they?

I wandered about the building, confused and heartbroken for much more personal reasons today. Probably, if Zelda _had_ been real, she wouldn't have been worth saving.

I think Farador believes I am still real, however. He and several of the other students. But doubtless, many of them had parents who raised them with the "knowledge" that it was "all just a story", and still others see no proof of my reality, and disbelieve on account of that.

_At least Farador believes_, I told myself. _That's all that matters_.

How can I save such a world, if it doesn't even believe I _exist_? When did that invisible barrier spring up, and how did I not notice it? Was I too long absent, wandering, drowning in my grief? Should I have done something, done more, somehow kept my own memory alive?

Such are the thoughts that plague me still, even as I write this. I have let the world come to this, let it fall apart; it can no longer be saved. I despair, with barely the shadow of hope clinging to me. The world is empty, and I no less. There is a certain hollow emptiness where everything good used to be. But that can't be right! Link is alive! And as long as he lives, there must certainly be good in the world. There must be _hope_.

What if he's already died? What if he died before I even began my search?

That sense of proximity flares, and I calm down. He's alive, he's somewhere, breathing and going about his daily routine, in the same province as I.

Didn't I say that I believed that he was Farador? But it's hard to give myself even such assurances, amongst this sudden knowledge. What if _he_ can't see me, either? What if I must be alone for the rest of eternity? What if being reborn no longer matters, and he is forever on that circle outside?

Melancholy dogged my steps, as I walked through the halls of the museum, staring at replicas of famous and obscure relics. That was the sheath for the Master Sword, only not really; it was just a replica. The museum had taken pains to replace all the placards that discussed the events of long-ago as if they were just a story. I'm grateful even for the illusion. I'm crying, but my tears are no realer than I, and they disappear the second they leave my face. Poor, weeping little ghost girl! No one cares for _your_ tears! Nor shall they, _ever_!

Farador ditched the rest of his class to drink in some of the more obscure relics, reading the placards with eager interest, giving me another reason to be glad for the museum following the law, and changing out their usual placards that were far too much speculation as to the "true" meaning and origin of these "relics". Someday, I shall force myself to see what it is that they usually say. I might have done that then and there—I was in a sort of self-punishing mood, and I think that they simply put the placards required by law on over the real ones. But I couldn't bear it, and I didn't feel as if I had the energy.

I deliberately wrenched my thoughts away, trying to think of nothing else but Farador.

Farador wandered, in evident fascination with the tale, the original tale, what the museum mentioned of it. I could see him comparing the bits and pieces of the story he saw in the museum with that he'd heard in school, and read in his library books. It wasn't adding up for him, because the museum had replaced their placards piecemeal, and the story no longer interconnected. I longed to tell him the real story, to see the wonder he was sure to express at the thought of long-ago times filled with magic and monsters. Instead, I followed him, watching his every move, not letting myself think—a very strange experience for me.

But I had to think about it, sooner or later. Perhaps I'll feel better about everything later. I doubt it. Days like these make me wonder why I bother going on, and then I remember that it's because I have no choice. I'm dead. Either someone resurrects me, somehow, or permanently destroys my spirit. Until then, I'm stuck as I am—no matter how much it hurts. At least Farador believes.

Somehow, that isn't good enough. I tire of this for today. I'll write more tomorrow.

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of the legendary realm of Hyrule~-~


	5. entry 5

entry 5: 47 Invir

I know, I know, I wrote that I'd write again the next day. But can you blame me for not doing that? As I think I remember it, I spent much of that day, and the next, moping about, in my little secluded corner of park, staring at the pond that they dare to call a lake, reflecting upon the great Lake Hylia. It may still exist somewhere, but I have yet to find it.

Nothing remains of what I might recognise, no people, no landmarks, I haven't seen a zora or a goron in centuries. I've learnt that the common explanation is that gorons were rocks mistaken for people, especially given the strange petroglyphs resembling rocks with human faces found deep inside certain mountains. Zoras, on the other hand, were fish mistaken for people, or fish deities created by the superstitious, depending on whose account you read. The gerudos, however, are accepted as being real. But it's basically only them.

I have abandoned that particular haunt for Farador's school, itself. It is no matter for a dead girl to break into the school, with her dead notebook and writing supplies. At least here, I spend less time thinking of what _was_, and more thinking of what _may be_. That's good…I think.

My existence is still quite as lonely as it was before, but I've taken out my frustration and depression, venting by defending Farador using magic. It's good practice, at the very least.

As long as I don't make myself visible or audible to him, I can be the strange mysterious force that saves him—a ghost, one without a name, but with plenty of magic, and not waste my one introduction. I am very, very careful. He might yet become so suspicious that he asks who is doing this, who is helping him, and I'm not quite sure where the line is that I mustn't cross.

I've done lots of little things, mostly, including helping to repair those damaged books, and ensuring that other, helpful materials _just happen_ to be in locations that will catch his attention, flipping pages to information I want him to read, or that I know he cares about, when he isn't looking. Sometimes he narrows his eyes, staring around whatever room he is in, and opens his mouth to ask a question, and then, seeing how utterly still the world is, decides against it. I rather suspect that he's figured out that what is happening around him is magic—he's smart, no matter how those around him seem to fail to realise it—and he'll never be one of those who dismiss magic out of hand. But whether or not he realises _just who_ is helping him…well, I doubt it, but a girl can hope, can't she?

Bowel isn't the only one who picks on him. There are a few upperclassmen who have nothing better to do. Just as Bowel has his gang of three to five boys with no greater intelligence than he (they seem to come in shifts, so it's not the same group every time; it's not as if they're his _friends_), there are a couple of gangs of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds who, apparently, think it's fun to mess with the much younger teen.

Particularly vicious is a gang of roughrider girls, who think they're oh-so-tough, dress all in black (or teal, or dark blue, or red), ripped clothing, and don't give a damn about rules. Maybe they have the like in whatever world I think you come from. I hate them. In their own way, I think they're worse than Ganon. They're full of snide little comments, but they're quick to come to blows, too, and half of them, at least, are almost bulky with muscles. I think they must spend all of their spare time ripping their clothes artfully and lifting heavy weights.

Farador needs the protection. The Triforce of Courage would enable him to stand up to them, but he doesn't have it; it's hidden away in a secret religious building. Only the one declared to probably be Link will be allowed to see it. But, you see, that leaves Farador at the girls' mercy. And he's not the sort to fight back anyway. So, I fight back for him.

I am learning subtlety, because most of my uses of magic against humans is limited towards what is dismissible as happenstance—these are only children, after all, and I don't want to maim or kill. I knock things off of shelves into them, blow papers in their faces, and yes, sometimes use actual magical shields. Their skill at dismissing these "coincidences" is incredible. Then again, this school _does_ have rather powerful air vents, it's true. And most of the bullies are, like Bowel, none too bright.

I'm rather pleased with myself. Other than these developments, however, nothing has changed. Still, at least I've done _something_. It's put me in a better mood—good enough to write again. Only about a month, now.

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of the legendary realm of Hyrule~-~


	6. entry 6

entry 6: 4 Dalir

Yes, yes, I know. It is absolutely inexcusable of me to have gone so long without writing here. If you were a person, diary, I'm sure you'd be glaring at me. I'd beg your forgiveness and you'd just huff and turn away, arms crossed. Nor can I blame you. It has, after all, been over a week since I last wrote anything. But I didn't see it coming. I've been very busy, looking after Farador. I've written before that he seems to need minding. But yesterday, things came to a head, after a fashion.

I very nearly revealed myself. I was just so angry. Those upperclasswomen are strangely _determined_ to ruin everything. And Farador's library books seem to be the easiest target. This time, not even his classroom—in effect, his safe haven—was safe for him. Someone needs to do something about those girls. I can clearly see they're headed nowhere but prison, or, rather, gaol. They deserve it, I'll have you know. They're nasty, and they're only getting nastier the longer they get away with the horrible things they do.

Unlike Bowel, they _do_ know the importance and fragility of Farador's borrowed books, as well as just how much trouble he stands to be in if they're destroyed. They must have been following and spying on him, because they knew just where to go—this classroom, Farador's classroom, in which I'm writing this now, is quite secluded. They would not have come here otherwise.

Looking around, I appreciate just how much of a mess they made. It's all cleaned up now, but by the end, there was glass from those cabinets up there shattered everywhere, the desks pushed back to the back wall, flurries of papers everywhere, pages of the library books mixed in with Farador's homework and whatever those papers were that the rightful owner of this classroom left on his desk. I didn't get a good look at them, but I think they were probably his outlines, at least, for an upcoming exam. That's not good. I don't think the man is one of Farador's teachers, mercifully, but still….

Worrying.

It wasn't as neat when he entered as it is now, of course. I think there were bottles—glass bottles—on the teacher's desk, and they had…liquids of some sort, in them. Shattered and spilt since, of course. And I'm pretty sure there were boxes and crates in that back corner over there (you can't see where I'm pointing, though, can you? But I don't know how else to put it…). But those girls…they practically broke down the door to get in here. Why?

Sometimes, childish cruelty is incomprehensible to me. What do they hope to _gain_, tormenting him?

I pushed the limits in this battle: I _spoke_ to them.

It started with them forcing open the door, and blocking off this only exit, that their victim not escape. Farador had been stuffing books into his schoolbag from the moment he heard the first bang of the door. He had his priorities straight, after all. But he hadn't finished before the lock failed, and the door burst open with great violence. He made the mistake of looking up, and then his eyes immediately fell back to his books, but it was too late.

The leader of the girls, whose name I think begins with an "r", not that I've heard it that much, was glaring down at him, and seemed to take his brief glance upwards as a sign of defiance. She shook back her wild-looking, artfully messy hair—a lion's mane, you might call it—and stalked towards him, exaggerating her resemblance to the predator. Behind her were five other girls, all fellow roughriders. They're all in their late teens, and Farador is only about thirteen. Nothing about the battle that was sure to ensue was fair.

Farador tried to protect his books (I wanted to tell him to save himself, and _I'd_ look after the books, but, naturally, couldn't). He might otherwise have fled. One of the girls blocked the escape route, and two stayed between Farador's hideout and the door, ready to defend the exit or go on the offence, as necessary. That left three, including the leader, toughest of the lot, to confront Farador.

"Say, what're you doing inside, on such a nice day, nerd boy?" the leader sneered, sitting casually on one of the desks nearby. Farador was white and shaking, but he persisted in trying to stuff away the books. He knew nothing good would come of any answer he gave, and settled for trying to get out of there as fast as he could. I don't think he'd realised just how trapped he was, yet, or perhaps he thought that the bad odds were no reason not to _try_ escape. I don't know.

Everything seemed to happen very fast, then, in part because I panicked. The cupboard doors overhead burst open, and the head bully's head jerked up, frowning. I saw her look at the air vent, shrug, and lean over towards Farador's bag. He tried to tug it back from her, but to no avail. She reached inside, instead, opened a book, and tore it (and it was a _hardcover_) right down the edge of the spine—you know, where the book's at its weakest. Pages fluttered down.

The other two girls grinned, as if they were at a slumber party and one had just started a pillow fight. I could _see_ the idea occur to them, and glared, fists clenched in a useless gesture.

The other girls began ripping at the other books, ignoring Farador begging them to stop. I grew angrier and angrier. I opened all of the cupboards at once, and began flinging the bottles and vials at the girls. (I usually don't do this sort of thing, as I said before, but I was _angry_.) Their eyes opened wide, but they couldn't see through the sudden blizzard of papers, whole and torn, that a mysterious wind was blasting in their faces. The wind itself kicked itself up into a furious onslaught, driving them forcefully back.

Farador stared, frozen, eyes wide, as the wind drove the girls back. The leader stumbled, unable to see where she was going. She tripped and fell over a desk. I think at some point, I may have hurled a box or two at them. But when I get really angry…well, I'm less than aware of everything I'm doing. I'm not proud of myself, for that.

Glass continued to shatter from the cupboards above, and everything that wasn't nailed down or too heavy for me to lift was harrying the girls. They continued to back up, driven by wind and debris.

"Don't you _ever_ touch him again!" I cried. Whatever part of me was still capable of reason was thinking that I wouldn't be squandering my one big revelation. It assumed that either all of them would hear me, in which case, even if I _had_ squandered it, seven people would know my secret existence, which was a definite improvement, or, that none of them would hear me, in which case I'd hardly revealed myself at all.

_Everyone_ heard me. Panic and fear overcame the leader's earlier frustration. She sought for the source of my voice, but couldn't see me. I don't know what Farador was doing. I was too busy watching the girls, as those of them that had fallen scrambled to their feet, turned tail, and fled. _That_ was gratifying.

The miniature tornado that had assaulted them at once died down, papers fluttering to the floor like so much down. Heedless of subtlety, I began sifting through them, trying to separate out those that had come from Farador's library books from his schoolwork from those stacked on the teacher's desk. It was slow going—shreds of paper are all much the same size, no matter how big the original page they'd once constituted had been.

Farador continued to stare, as I knelt there, sorting out the biggest papers—those that were still whole—first. Farador cleared his throat, several times, and I turned to look at him. To him, it must have looked as if the papers were carefully sorting themselves.

"Look," he said, voice hesitant, ponderous, and shaky, but admirably strong. He still must have thought he was seeing things, imagining things, talking to something _not there_. Dismiss _this_, ye disbelievers! I might have thought to myself. "I don't know who you are, or why you care, but…thank you, for helping me. I appreciate it."

There was a pause, a silence. I forgot that I could speak. He couldn't see me, even now. Did that mean I should go back to being cautious?

"You're welcome," I said. "It's been my pleasure, helping you." I meant it. There was too much of Link's quiet strength in this one for me to stand back and watch him suffer, when I could help.

To him, I was a disembodied, but kindly, voice. I knew it straightaway, but he heard me, and that was enough. But see how close I came to squandering my one big revelation. I knew I hadn't because he still couldn't see me, hear me, understand _me_. And also, afterwards, when I tried to speak to him, later, he'd gone back to being deaf to my voice. But, it was nice, I thought, to be heard for once.

We spent the next few hours sifting through the fragments of papers. He'd realised what I was doing with remarkable alacrity. We'd sat in mostly silence, because both of us were most used to that, but it was a companionable silence.

I was reassembling those pages together as I went, smirking a bit at his transparent awe. This was nothing to the true powers of the Triforce of Wisdom! These were the little magic tricks I've been doing since I was just a child, before the Triforce of Wisdom came into my life. Before Link's return. Back when I'd been alive.

I'd assumed we'd have more time to talk, and if I choose to reveal myself to him, perhaps we will. But I've learnt patience, these last few millennia. I will wait until after the ceremony. At least I had the chance to say what I did. At least he _knows_.

That was quite a bit of excitement, wasn't it? Was it worth the wait? Ah, well, we none of us can have everything we want. But perhaps I'll have more to say, tomorrow.

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of the legendary kingdom, Hyrule~-~


	7. entry 7

entry 7: 11 Dalir

You know, diary, you should be used to this by now. Still, I _do_ feel a mite bad about leaving you in the lurch. But I did only say that I _might_ have more to say the next day. But, look on the bright side! Plenty has happened since, and I'm only writing in this shell of a book anyway to preserve my own sanity, as I can't speak to any living soul (and I haven't seen any dead ones; I suspect they exist on a different plane of existence, and I'm by myself on this one, which is just _not fair_).

Plenty of things _have_ happened, but it's mostly been the usual. Farador reading up about the myths and legends surrounding the Triforce, Farador being bullied (but not by the roughrider girls; they seem to have learnt their lesson, although it's hard to tell after only a week), and sometimes I check in on the progress of preparations for the ceremony. Well, there aren't any _yet_, but I go to the stadium, anyway, and stand there, imagining the stands full of people, the bright colours everywhere, the Assembly making fools of themselves with praise for each new name, as children-to-be-adults scribble it down next to their previous ones in the records book. Perhaps they will later regret their choices, perhaps not. One among them will be whisked away into adventure, his plans for his life subsumed by the needs of the gods, of the people, of the _world_. A heavy burden, true, but he has never not been capable of bearing it.

Two days ago, I think I was very bored, up until Bowel and his boys tried to pick a fight with Farador. Farador was much more assured, much calmer, than usual, and I realised it was because he _knew _I was watching out for him.

There is only so much I can do to stop this particular gang. It had seven members today, and I had used up most of my weapons last week. I resorted mostly to shields, deprived of projectiles, and bought Farador enough time to escape, books intact. When the bullies made to follow him, I put up a wall of magic between them and the door. Bowel, to my surprise, didn't throw himself at the barrier, thinking that he could force his way through. Instead he shied from it, as if it had zapped him from a distance. His "friends" started mocking him, suggesting that he was scared of a door, now, and wasn't fit to lead them.

These boys are particularly fickle, it seems. Well, they aren't his friends. It occurred to me, then, that perhaps part of the problem with Bowel is that he has learnt to always keep up his guard, and not let anyone close—rather like Farador. That thought disturbed me, for some reason. I made the impulsive decision to follow him home, and see if I could find the origin of his bullying and violence.

I did.

No wonder his grades are abysmal. Even if he wasn't a complete moron, he'd have no _incentive_ to work at school, and that would take a chunk out of his percentage. Neither of his parents pays much attention to him, on a good day. I walked into the thing on a bad day. His mother ignored him, except to scold him for not coming straight home from school (although he _had_). His father got involved, then, saying that he wouldn't pay and take care of a slacker, and had they taught him nothing?

Bowel managed to intercept most of his father's blows, and retreat to the safety of his room, which, like the rest of the house, was all rotting wood and aged furniture. He didn't open his school bag; he just sat there on his bed and stared at the ground. If he hadn't been Bowel, I might have thought him deep in thought. He just sat there, curled in on himself. His cheek was bleeding from one of his father's lucky blows, but he didn't seem to notice, just sitting there, staring at nothing, taking shuddering breaths.

And as it turns out, there is little to expect from his father but violence and more violence, and nothing from his mother but scolding—for things he didn't know to do, for things he _did_, but she refuses to acknowledge, for not being quick enough. There is never praise or love from either of these two. He might disappear from their house for good, and I doubt his parents would notice.

He might disappear for good from the world, and I doubt most people would notice, or miss him. How depressing. At least _my_ parents, long ago, _loved me_. He was obviously the unplanned, unwanted child, closer to an object than a person. Then, he turns around and throws that idea back at everyone in school, most especially Farador. Try as I might, I can't discover what Farador has done, or is, to warrant such treatment. Perhaps he angered a particularly vengeful god, in a past life.

But then, what did _Bowel_ do? No true family, no friends, no intelligence, no skills. He is a person whose whole life will be going through the motions of manual labour, trying to make ends meet, dying early after an unfulfilling fifty-or-so years, when the life expectancy in Honalle is 180 years, for men.

Curse my soft heart, but I pitied him, in that moment. I'll hate him tomorrow, I'm sure, but after following him for the past three days…I think I understand what makes an idiot feel he _must_ behave thus. There's a tragedy woven amongst the ordinary weft of destiny, one that harms the other weavings it touches. So much pain stemming from this one family. I can't even put it into words, properly.

The next time it comes to blows, perhaps I will go easy on him.

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of Hyrule~-~


	8. entry 8

entry 8: 17 Dalir

I rather suspect that Farador and Bowel are in the middle of a secret war, and I am caught in the middle, between the two. There is enough injustice in the idea to give me some confidence in its verity. Now, they are forever glaring at one another, as if the earlier dislike flared suddenly, when I wasn't looking, into hate. Surely, I could not have missed the confrontation that birthed such. What am I missing?

I have never known Farador to glare as much before as he does now. But I have the sense that Bowel _envies_ him his parents and comparatively charmed life, for all that he has yet to pay fully the cost of repairing those library books (which no longer need the repairs). Even the teacher, Missus Naleat, has noticed the increased animosity, the tension it injects into any room that has both of them in it. I wonder if something has changed in Bowel's home life, precipitating this, or whether Farador has decided to take a stand. I remember that there is less than a month—about thirty days—before the ceremony, and wonder if, just maybe, that animosity is a precursor of Link's rebirth. My non-existent heart skips a metaphorical beat at the thought. Eager anticipation, as I said before. I _live_ for this. Well, not _live_, but you understand, diary.

It is very distracting, this tension, this hatred. It feels as if it lingers in this room, in Farador's room, even now. A wrongness encroaches on the back of my mind, that nagging little voice that tells you when you've forgotten something.

What have I forgotten? I can't think….

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of Hyrule~-~


	9. entry 9

entry 9: 21 Dalir

Farador and Bowel get into fights more and more often—and Farador has learnt at last to at least set his feet, and not yield. He wards off the worst blows with his hands and arms—those he doesn't manage to dodge. I think, also, that his parents have signed him up for self-defence. Perhaps he told them that he was being bullied. Perhaps Bowel got into trouble. Perhaps that is what started this little war.

No, I don't understand any better than I did four days ago. I'm sorry. I wish I knew, for my own sake. There's almost an air of competition to their behaviour. I've seen the like before, I think, but if I did, it was very, very long ago. The memory won't come clear for me. Was Link involved? I have no idea.

It's very frustrating, and I have set myself the task of only watching. I can't tell who's the instigator of these fights, even. It's as if there's some silent signal, passed between them, and then it comes to blows. I'd almost forgotten that old gift of telepathy. If they're talking to each other in their minds, if both of them have that old gift...what does it signify? There is only one Link. The other must be a natural at the old skills.

I've reread the entries in my diary, searching for the origin of their conflict, and I can't find it. But what I _have_ found quite disturbs me. There _is_ something off, something different, something I'm missing. And there's a sinking feeling in my non-existent heart, that I won't like it when I remember what I've forgotten, when that knowledge I had, and then misplaced, returns to me. There's a suspicion in my mind, now, one I won't write, and don't dare even to whisper to myself, though I know no one will hear.

Because…why _did_ I follow Bowel home? It makes no sense to me.

And I don't like that.

In great confusion,

~-~Zelda, erstwhile princess of Hyrule~-~


	10. entry 10

entry 10: 23 Dalir

What in Nayru's name is going on? This is what I ask, into the chaos that surrounds my unlife, now. "But it has only been two days!" you might protest, if you had a mouth with which to shape the words, or a mind with which to think them. Well, not much has happened, if you must know, only all of it is highly unusual. Everyone is behaving quite oddly. The ceremony is close at hand, and it's filling everyone's thoughts, but it's still over half a month away, so that's no excuse!

Again, what in Nayru's name is _wrong_ with everyone? I suppose Missus Naleat is acting herself, with her usual dismissive indifference to the holiday which once I mistook for contempt for my family. She is one of those who cannot be prevailed upon to help even with the decorations or planning of the stadium. They are building the great wooden stage where the politicians and historians will give their speeches to ensure that the Assembly is bored and not paying attention when it comes time for the naming. I might almost consider it a conspiracy, but now I know better. This is a culturohistorical holiday, a curiosity for scholars and anthropologists and historians. That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it.

An ordinary Naming Day is full of speeches of encouragement, and "look to the futures!", but this will all be gravity and pomp, with reminders that "the past is what made us what we are". It goes against the ordinary flow, a counter-current, a retrospective. It makes me feel more retrospective, as well. I await Link's return with my customary silence, enforced silence, for none shall see or hear until he returns. Not much longer, now, I reassure myself.

The madness of the ordinary students, however, is a distraction. I don't think, this time, that it's only Link whose eyes suddenly snapped open, realising that he'd lived before, that he was _the hero_. Actually, I think he's yet to awaken, but there are others who _have_.

For instance, Malon. For another instance, Ralph. Their sudden clarity adds further chaos to this tangled mess of violence and hatred, which still I cannot untangle. To untangle a ball of yarn, first find one of the ends, they say (or once said). But both of the ends of this ball of yarn are buried somewhere deep in the muddle, where I cannot get at them.

It all centres around Farador and Bowel. Or, well, it did. But, as I said, everyone has been behaving crazily lately.

Farador set aside his books to stand outside, under a tree. He didn't eat his lunch, and I don't think he brought one. He just stood there, arms folded, looking around the schoolyard as a breeze blew across the grass. Things are nothing as they were.

Bowel approached him, saw Farador standing there, without his books, cocked his head, furrowed his brows, and walked away, backwards.

They didn't have their daily confrontation. What is happening, here?

But that was yesterday. Today was even stranger.

At least, today, Farador brought his lunch with him, although he sat under the same tree, deep in thought, with his bag of library books next to him. He ate lunch first, and then pulled out the big picture book that Bowel had destroyed, before I'd fixed it,and the roughriders had torn to shreds, before I had fixed it. I was sure he knew that I was there, although he couldn't see me.

Into this scene of tranquil study came Bowel, showcasing an extraordinary amount of emotional depth by knowing to be awkward and nervous. I wouldn't have credited him with the ability, before.

"Say, Farador, can I talk to you?" he asked. There was something…different…about his voice. It frightened me. It took me a few seconds for me to identify the difference. It was a quieter, less demanding voice, devoid of malice, or scorn, or vitriol. He was not building up to a confrontation. He sounded as if he did just want to talk to Farador. But why? And why, after so many days of their ever-mounting animosity, enmity, hatred?

Farador's voice sounded different when he replied, too. It was hard, and brittle, and sharp—broken, I almost might say, but if broken, it had broken in the manner of glass, into sharp, hard edges.

"Go away, Bowel. I'm not in the mood for a fight, and I can defend myself now. I'm sure you're not ready to fight someone who can fight back."

Didn't he see that something had _changed_, that _everything_ had changed, in just about everyone in the schoolyard? The entire school seemed to have rotated ninety degrees; everything was on its side. I no longer knew what to make of anything, but my non-existent heart was pounding.

"I'm not looking for a fight," said Bowel, not meeting his gaze. He seemed to be staring at the bag, the one with the library books. Yet, I felt no need to stand between them and him, to protect them. The entire world had gone mad, and anyone might do anything.

Farador scoffed. "Yes. That makes sense. Now that I can fight back, you want to sue for peace."

Bowel didn't ask what the phrase meant, although it's not one often in use anymore. Perhaps, he thought it unimportant. "No. I came to apologise. For everything. I've been…a bit of an idiot. I just wanted to ask for your forgiveness."

"Did you expect to get it?" asked Farador, still in that sharp voice. "You've spent the past few years making my life miserable."

Bowel bowed his head, looking down. "I know. I've been an idiot, but—"

"That sounds about right," Farador interrupted, and I had a brief flare of irritation; I wanted to know what Bowel was going to say. Why did I _care_?

Since when did Bowel realise that he was an idiot?

I still can't make sense of it. Or maybe, I just don't _want_ to.

With my fondest regards for your support,

~-~ Zelda, princess of Hyrule~-~


	11. entry 11

entry 11: 26 Dalir

I am a fool. Diary, if you were a person, I'm sure you'd have spent the past few _weeks_ laughing at me (except when you were glaring because I set you aside, with nary a word of warning that I'd be absent (not knowing it myself).

What made me realise this obvious fact? Well, the madness of this school in general! (It's a pity you can't see this building, or perhaps just as well, it's only _just_ this side of leaking and ruining everything not waterproofed. Good thing you're a diary of ashes, right? Dead, like me!)

But, if you _could_ look and see around this room, around all of these corridors, I could show you how they've changed. The paint is peeling, the building degrading, rotting, falling apart. I could swear it was in better repair even a week ago, and that noticeably. But there's also a strange energy pervading this space, as if magic has become entrapped within its halls. And the magic is green.

They've continued along their paths of awakening, have Malon, and Ralph, and the others. Malon called herself Dinasfortua, which is one of those newer names, but you can see her scratching in the letter "m" on her school supplies, puzzling it over, sneaking surreptitious glances around to see if she is alone, if anyone else remembers.

There are more than she thinks. I am changing my vote.

Impa is there, too, older than Malon, no longer young enough to change her name in any ordinary way, but you can see that she clenches her fists whenever Missus Naleat flaunts her dismissal of the old myths in her presence, but Impa is too old to fix things. Her orphaned granddaughter goes to school here, and it's that reduced exposure to Farore's magic that has delayed Impa's awakening. That and that Link was only born thirteen years ago.

I walk these halls, pacing them, often. I don't do that when I'm writing, however, due to some residual fear that I will smudge the ink. It's not ink, and it's no realer than you, diary, but habit is habit and habit dictates. Perhaps I should invest in a ruptured pen. But my days of writing in your pages are almost over.

I've been a right fool, you know.

How is Farador doing, you ask? Truth be told, I have no idea. I don't know how _anyone_ fares, least of all myself. He's changed with the heaving, roiling of the earth, with the world rearranging itself beneath our feet. Death and destruction are coming, always I forget, ruination, suffering, an opening of eyes. That must be why so many have reawakened—those old souls, who have prior experience with how to run, how to fight, how to hide.

There may be more, yet to awaken. Perhaps, _this_ time….

What happened since I last wrote? Well, it _has_ been a few days, but I'm sure you're used to that by now. I'll just pluck at the fluff of my quill feather, shall I? It's not as if it'll ever _lose_ any, and I'm feeling in the need to punch something. I think I've had a few lives, back when I still lived and reincarnated, where I could fight as well as any man. Maybe not. But I envy those past mes, whether or not they exist, for their ability to, say, punch a wall, and have it actually connect.

I shall have to visit my violence upon monsters, instead. And this quill. And, perhaps, Link.

He deserves it.

Do you know what happened the day after I last wrote? What a stupid question; of course you don't. If you were human, you might be able to hazard a guess. Maybe you would have. Or, perhaps, you would have already calmly sat down and explained to me all the things I hadn't noticed, myself, explained the things my subconscious already knew.

I'm almost certain, now.

Let's see, what happened…? Farador was almost normal, sitting under that tree (it occurs to me that he might be avoiding those roughriders girls, or the other bullies; just because they left doesn't mean that his classroom is _safe_, now). He spread out his library books, and ate lunch with greater care, because outside is less reliable for keeping library books safe than _inside_, even when it _hasn't_ recently rained. He was taking a bit of a risk, and he clearly knew it, pausing every few minutes to glance around, to ensure that no one was sneaking up on him. As I've said: he's smart. He learns from his mistakes. Outside, in the open, he has the opportunity of flight, if he catches onto the threat quickly enough.

He stiffened, stowed away his books, and was on his feet, food forgotten, by the time gang 3 showed up. I call them gang 3 because I've never been able to categorise them, what they are. It's all upperclassmen, as the roughrider girls are all in their upper teens, but gang 3 is all men. They're the tough types who think they'll join the military when they leave school, not realising that the military knows better than to welcome in rabble-rousing riffraff like them.

They're the very definition of _trouble_, but they're also strong, and it always feels as if there's more of them than there are. For instance, although I want to say that there were ten or twenty of them, I'm pretty sure that there were only five or so. They're like moblins, or the reincarnations of moblins, if monsters even reincarnate (oh, look, my memory is itself beginning to reawaken!).

They're one of the groups that are always picking on Farador (and why, why, _why_ does anyone pick on him?). He recognised them from a distance, and made short work of packing up. Lunch was nothing, next to his need to avoid the coming confrontation.

"But, Zelda," I can almost hear you say, "would _Link_ avoid such a confrontation? Surely, he's beaten much worse odds!"

And my response to you is: shut up. Let me speak. Or, well…you get the gist.

Well, anyway, he was about to run and they couldn't have that, because they're nasty little delinquents. They'd laid a trap for him (showing _remarkable_ intelligence for a group who usually doesn't have enough cumulatively to get a passing grade in _anything_), and a roughrider girl came up behind him, and held him up. I realised I'd been highly inattentive, but the roughrider girl was a hanger-on (or maybe a girlfriend), without the rest of the posse.

I directed the force of my ire towards her, preparing Din's Fire, because I was more than a bit angry, mostly at myself for not seeing the trap before it was sprung, and not paying attention. I suppose, I was complacent. There's a certain feeling of safety that surrounds Farador's reading ritual, and he was behaving like himself, which I felt too relieved about to notice much of anything else. I overcompensated with a fireball, of not great heat, which I held in my non-existent hands, and then lobbed in her direction. Farador swept a passing glance through the general area whence the fireball had come, and seemed to realise that his mysterious protectress had returned (and didn't know that I'd been there all along).

But meanwhile, the boys of gang 3 had closed in, and I was suddenly unsure of myself. What other traps had I missed? Farador clenched the strap of his schoolbag in his fist, head whipping around as he sought for a means of escape. We might have backed up, down the hill, but what good would that have done? There was too much open space, and in an open area, he couldn't have run fast enough to get away. We'd planned poorly.

I mustered up every ounce of determination I had, set my feet as best I could, and started running through all the spells I remembered. It bothered me, rather, that I hadn't remembered Din's Fire until right then.

I didn't remember Farore's Wind, however, either, until Bowel appeared, as if from nowhere, before the tree, halfway up the hill, braced, feet set so that he would be almost impossible to bowl over without the exertion of absurd amounts of force. He stared there, at the upperclassmen, and frowned, folding his arms, as he stared down the odds. Although the men were climbing the hill, he turned his head to look behind him.

"I don't suppose you want any help?" he asked.

Farador stared. I stared, too, momentarily distracted from cataloguing useful spells. Neither of us had expected this. Bowel huffed, as if disappointed by the lack of response, and turned back around to face the opposition.

Yes, opposition. I couldn't readily make sense of it—was it that strange, almost possessive, fixation some bullies have for their victims, that only _they_ are allowed to harm? I bit my lip, staring down the hill. Even if Bowel were truly, if inexplicably, on our side…did we stand a chance?

You can go ahead and call me a fool again, for wondering that. I deserve it. As gang 3 approached, Bowel swung his right arm in an arc, to his right, and a wall of blue appeared between him and the upperclassmen. It was an effect like a flashlight beam panning across a wall in an otherwise darkened room, how the light illuminates the wall, and the wall only seems to be there whilst the light shines on it. The blue wall panned across in the same way.

I recognised it as Nayru's Love, and wasted some time staring, again. I whirled around as I saw Farador steeple his fingers together, pointing upwards, and some sort of energy spread out, with him as the epicentre. A strange, prickly sort of shield. I looked back and forth between the two of them. Since when did _either_ of them know any magic? I felt as if I were meant to contribute a spell, here, perhaps a seal, perhaps an attack, perhaps something…else. I felt very humbled, and unimportant, because how could you follow up such powerful magic?

A strong wind arose before me, and sped down the hill. The wall of Nayru's Love showed the area where the spell was active, and by now, it had died down. Bowel, whom I will have you know is, of course, _left_-handed, managed to flip one of the upperclassmen over, and backwards, so that the man went tumbling down a rather steep hill. In other circumstances, I might have pitied him, but I was angry, and he had done nothing all his life but cause trouble. Besides, I was too busy being perplexed at this strange new alliance in the making.

Farador kept up his wall, with his eyes closed, and the wall expanding outwards. I had the sense that there was substance to it, and that it was deliberately ignoring me, by his will.

Bowel, not so much. But Bowel countered the migration of the shield with Nayru's Love, until it folded around him, driving the bullies back, but leaving him be. Huh.

The wind I'd sent downhill continued to harry the two or three (or perhaps only one) people climbing the hill to our left. Bowel turned to engage another with his customary viciousness, driving him back with raw power boosted with magic. I would not have wanted to be one of the upperclassmen fighting him. Age and greater size were no advantage, here. It just gave Bowel more room to buck, and dodge, and upend them, sending them back down the hill.

Their injuries, I'm sure, were probably fairly severe. When Bowel fights, he doesn't hold back. He's actually…really scary. I think he might have dislocated an arm or two, before he sent each of his opponents tumbling back down.

They weren't stupid enough to try to climb back up, or perhaps it was Farador's invisible shield at play. I only had the sense of it, its circumference, the way it continued to spread, until I realised that he was overtaxing himself.

Torn, unsure for once as to whom to watch, whom to protect, what to do, I looked back and forth between the two. Bowel straightened back up. His gaze panned the hill, searching for foes. For a moment, I thought he saw me, as he scanned the area for threats, but then, I realised that it was merely that the sun was at my back, making it harder for him to see.

He seemed almost to be able to _see_ the shield. He looked forwards for a while, and then whacked himself on the forehead, chastising himself for stupidity, and loped up the hill, towards Farador.

"Hey! You can take down that shield, you know. You're using too much magical energy. You'll drive yourself to exhaustion."

Farador made no move to change things, that I could notice. It was possible that he'd lost control of the spell. It was possible that he was just acting in defiance of his (erstwhile?) enemy.

With his normal casual cruelty, Bowel swung a fist into Farador's gut, knocking the wind out of him, breaking his concentration, and returning his focus to the world.

"Were you trying to _kill_ yourself?" Bowel asked, sounding incredulous. "Because, you know, you sort of _were_ draining all of your energy."

Farador just glared. I was a bit unnerved by Bowel's ability to not respond in kind. Instead, he gave a cheerful shrug, and stepped back, out of Farador's reach. Meanwhile, Farador was recovering his breath. I could sense, though, that he hadn't been seriously injured, which was surprising. But then, Bowel _hadn't_ been aiming to wound or maim.

"I came by to apologise, again, and saw that you needed help," said Bowel, sounding indifferent, and far too casual. Farador continued to glare, breathing ragged. He'd yet to recover his breath. "That's not the first time they've picked on you, though. I know. Well, you and me both. I'm sure you feel better, getting a little of your own back."

Farador managed to choke out a response as he still tried to get his wind back. "No. Not… like… you. Don't… like… fighting. Ugh."

But I was thinking that I'd never known that the upperclassmen picked on Bowel, too. And where was Bowel's posse?

"Don't pretend you haven't done the same," Farador said, straightening up, and standing. He looked very regal and composed, with none of the signs of recent combat that Bowel displayed. No bruises, no cuts, no blood. Bowel had managed to avoid serious injury, although the upperclassmen never play fair, and can be counted on to bring weapons onto school grounds. His cheek was already starting to turn purple.

"I'm not that way anymore, though. Don't you know, the Naming ceremony is only about half a month away. It's a chance to start over. I want to start over. Don't you? Don't you believe in second chances?"

He sounded so earnest that I just sat under the tree, drew my knees up against my chest, and stared back and forth, between the two.

"And I'm supposed to believe, what, that you've _changed_?" Farador asked.

"I saved you, didn't I?"

Farador is not a fool. He knew better than to pretend that he could have done everything on his own.

"Not only you," he muttered, and I smiled, just slightly. Bowel wasn't meant to hear that, but, although he didn't comment, I sensed that he did. "But thank you," Farador said, as if the words were distasteful. Bowel took it with grace, as if there were no bitterness to that tone, no unatoned-for sins between them.

"You're welcome. Think nothing of it. I mean it. I want to start over. I'm _going_ to start over. I'll make amends. I'll fix things."

"And what, I should believe that you've spent these past few years making my life hell because you knew that, come Third Naming, you could set it all behind you, be reborn?" Farador demanded. There was hurt, disbelief, resentment, the nurturing of an old grudge, in his voice.

Bowel looked down, bowing his head, not looking at anything. He stared across the schoolyard at the park that lay next to the school. It had trees, and a pond, and no streetlamps, no roads, no machinery. Yes, it was _that_ park.

"Perhaps I did," said Bowel. He sounded… pensive. I found myself straining to listen to their conversation, as if it were the most important thing I would ever hear in my life. Unlife.

"So…friends?" asked Bowel, in a chipper voice that suggested he knew what the response would be. He was back to showcasing his defiance, his disregard for society, for propriety. Farador scowled, but his voice was civil, level, without the earlier bitterness.

"We'll see," he said, flatly.

Bowel didn't leave, and neither of them were paying attention, so I reached into Farador's schoolbag and pulled out the big book. It'd been far too long since I'd felt like _reading_ something.

Regretfully yours,

~-~Zelda, princess of Hyrule~-~


	12. entry 12

entry 12: 28 Dalir

I've been reading quite a bit since then, all about how the legends are portrayed nowadays. There's never a shortage of commentary on the plausibility of _this_, the reasons that _that_ can't be true. Some of these things _aren't_ true; most of them _are_, which makes it all…infuriating. I hate this feeling, that the world has turned its back on me.

I watch the world as it passes me by, growing progressively more introspective, more retrospective, but as long as I am reading, and watching the schoolbound, I am able to set it aside, this loneliness. Although there are people all around me, none of them see me, none of them hear me, none of them notice me.

Or, perhaps, one does.

I watch the reborn, and the potentials, with particular interest. Naleat is as unreal to me as I am to her, almost; I see the influence she has over these children, but it is less than she believes it to be, than it was even a week ago. She can see the metamorphosis in progress, but dismisses it, thinking that it's cosmetics, hair dye, diets, training. She doesn't do any of those but cosmetics, herself, and she knows the power of those. She extrapolates.

Malon's hair was black, but it's since migrated to auburn. The first few times Naleat took her aside to give her lectures on the proper use of dyes, and their hazards, Malon looked confused. Now, she just rolls her eyes, and bears through the lecture, knowing that it has no relevance for her—unless she decides to dye her hair black, I suppose. It doesn't seem worth it to me, and Malon is always the wholesome sort, who doesn't do makeup, or hairdyes—nothing artificial here. Even her clothes are of simple, unbleached cotton.

Even Farador is getting lectures, and his appearance has changed little. He is, however, devouring everything he can find concerning the subject of magic. He's actually been doing this, surreptitiously, for weeks—since before I drove off the roughrider girls. He was already figuring it out. He's definitely not one to underestimate; I had no idea he was doing the research, until the other day, when gang 3 tried to ambush him.

He and Bowel occasionally have short, stilted conversations, that are nevertheless exceedingly polite. Farador is very good at politeness, and at bowing his head, and at bearing the brunt of any verbal assault. Not that there are any of those, anymore. Bowel is, indeed, making good on his promise to turn over a new leaf.

I never noticed it, but his hair was always a bright blond, and his eyes an absurdly clear green. Over the past few weeks, the bulk of his muscles has compacted, folding back in on itself like forged iron. He's compacting, but not growing any weaker for it. Just, as always, more dangerous.

The teachers are baffled by the sudden upturn in his grades. Which is odd; he's putting only slightly more effort into school than he was before. By which I mean, he does his homework, and usually doesn't miss class. Usually.

Which is still more work put in than _none at all_. But he doesn't care about school, and now, Farador doesn't, either. He's forever studying old myths and legends, and trying to teach himself magic. They'll both be terrifying come Naming Day, and that's only about half a month away.

At least they're working together in their quest to terrify the republic. I suppose that counts for something. I watch them always, anyway.

Bowel, as I've said before, could disappear off the face of the world, and no one would notice, or care. Only, I suppose that was never true, was it? But it occurs to me that his parents not caring for him makes it easy to disappear. He could run away from home, or go to jail, or die, and they'd never notice.

Or go on an extended quest. I know. I _know_.

Farador's parents care, which makes things more difficult. I'm sure, or fairly sure, if a bit less certain about everything in general, that he'll have some role to play in events coming up. I'm curious as to what it will be.

I've been reading up on the journeys of the legendary heroes, what's known of them, Link, and me, too, in our various lives. There's far too many of them, and Farador's picture book makes it seem even more overwhelming than it really is. There's a lot of information, and for the most I'm reduced to reading with as open of a mind as I can manage, and listening hard for my mind's protests that _it wasn't that way_, or _that sounds about right_.

I had no idea there were so many _lives_, that _I'd_ lived that much. I only remember the last, really, and it's fragmented, faded, broken.

I don't remember how it feels, to live. I don't remember what hunger feels like, or fatigue, or even the most mundane things—-the wind in my face, the grass beneath my feet, the warmth of the sun. All distant, otherworldly, gone.

Bitter loneliness, it is. Even though Link's here, now, I'm not sure that he's awoken. I'm still _alone_. Perhaps I feel even _more_ alone than before, because he's _there_ and yet _not_.

Often, I come up to that self-same hill, and read library books. Often, I come to that selfsame hill, and cry. I stare around at the strange world around me, and wonder what happened to _my_ world, _my_ kingdom, _my_ people. If we ever won, _could_ I get it back? If it were possible, would I turn the clock back as far as it could go, rewind to before my death, prevent all of this from happening?

_Yes_, whispers some voice within me. It warns me that I might have done so already, to everyone's peril. Or, perhaps, that was only a dream, a story I made up, to pass the time. I don't know. I don't _know_.

Yes, I often go up that hill, and weep, and then I feel at the ground, afterwards, as if expecting to feel dampness, as if expecting my hand not to pass right through.

I am _nothing_. I am _less_ than nothing.

I live only for the point when there is a cause to fight for, a road to take, and someone with whom to confer, with whom to speak. I still love Link, of course, but that love must always be sacrificed, set aside, for the good of my people.

Are they even _my_ people, anymore?

I will fight, and I will bring Hyrule back, kicking and screaming, if I must. It may be selfish, but perhaps Link and I _deserve_ to be selfish, after so long.

Then again, perhaps it's _that_ kind of thinking that's caused…all of this.

I hate being introspective, but while the world progresses, and the metamorphoses continue, but are not yet nearing completion, there is little else to do. I am still alone.

Yours truly,

~-~Zelda, princess of Hyrule~-~


	13. entry 13

entry 13: 30 Dalir

Hello, diary! How are you, today? Does that question hold any significance at all, I wonder. Third Naming is only a couple of weeks away, and I am very pensive, and very introspective, as I must be, at all times.

Or, rather, I have been reading, studying, learning, and thinking deeply about all I learn, all that _has been_, all that _I am_. Mostly, however, I have been waiting for Link. No plans can be finalised without his input, after all, and he always manages to have some information which I'd lacked. It's infuriating. _He's_ infuriating. Yes, I've spoken to him. To _him_. I've _spoken to Link_! If I were speaking, I could say that that was, indeed, triumph you heard in my voice. As it is, all I can say is that my writing these sentences is decidedly _triumphant_. I, Zelda, the cursed princess, forlorn, forsaken, no longer.

He isn't done with his metamorphosis, which is frustrating; it means I will have to wait still longer before he's himself enough to be truly helpful. But he's himself, enough, now, that I am no longer lonely, aching and broken at the thought of being that doll, crushed and kicked to the side of the road. I didn't want to be that doll, but I suppose I was. I have gone from being Zelda-the-kidnapped, to Zelda-the-forgotten.

I suspect that there are now quite a few people who remember my existence, which is heartwarming, but there is only one, still, who can hear my voice, see my face, touch me, understand the weight of the burden I—we—share.

I'd forgotten how infuriating he can be.

I was sitting at the top of the hill—which, as the place of my epiphany, I shall consider _our_ hill, and it will be special to me on account of this. I had stolen a few books from the school library, and was poring over them. As is completely normal, my gaze and attention was fixed solely on what I was reading at the moment. Fah to those who can multitask! I have no need!

It was engrossing subject matter, if distasteful, full of modern theories about "what really happened" when _x_. It might as well have been named: _Hyrule's Legends, If You Take Away the Magic!_. Insufferable.

Then, I'd set it aside, for something much less scholastic, and much less judgemental. Farador no longer needs constant supervision, after all; between his defence lessons, and his magic (also progressing at an alarming rate), he can well defend himself. But it left a hole in my time that I had to fill in other ways. Here I was, at lunchtime, reading. I had no idea where anyone else was, and was fine with that, really. I was absorbed in my research.

"Reading, _again_?" asked a voice, and I looked up, startled out of my study, looking around for who else was up here, reading with me. Yes, it seems foolish, looking back on it, but I was so accustomed to being invisible, unseen, unheard, unknown, that I knew that no one could be speaking to me.

I was wrong, of course. The voice continued, and this time I recognised it.

"Do you ever do anything _but_ read?" asked Link, a question so familiar, in a voice so familiar, that, although I started, it was surprisingly easy to fall back on habit. I'd forgotten how much he likes teasing me. I suppose every time he died, I pined so much I forgot he even _had_ faults. And no matter how I'd missed him, my first reaction was still irritation, as if we'd parted ways just yesterday, and he was late to an appointed meeting.

I slammed the book shut, with such violence that I almost damaged it (and at least folded some pages, despite the slight awareness I had that I should be careful, because this was school property). I glared at nothing, and huffed.

"Will you stop that? It isn't as if I do nothing but read, you know. It's a coincidence."

"Uh-huh," he said, as if I'd just told a blatant lie. But he didn't seem quite focused on the conversation, either. Instead, he stood there, partway down the hill, almost shy, almost hesitant, as if we were meeting for the very first time. I suppose that was kind of true. In a way.

"Do you…" he hesitated, voice far less certain than it had been scant seconds ago. "Do you mind if I sit here? With you, I mean?"

"Will you let me read in peace?" I asked, in my most irritable voice. He glanced behind him, as if he thought someone might be watching. No one was.

"No," he said, in an almost cheerful voice. My eyes narrowed, and I watched him. I sighed, set aside the book with greater care than that with which I'd closed it, sighed, straightened up, closed my eyes, leant back against the tree.

"I don't suppose I could stop you," I said, regretful. I'd said those same words, to the same person, so many times for more dangerous, wearier reasons. It was nice to use them outside of the context of failure versus success, life or death.

"No, you probably couldn't," he agreed, still in that falsely cheerful voice, climbing the hill the rest of the way. I looked at him, but tried to make it seem that I wasn't looking. I reached for this or that book, several times. I was not-so-secretly comparing him with the Link I remembered.

By now, despite the incompletion of the metamorphosis, he looked more-or-less the same. It had required his face to completely change shape, his nose to narrow, his body mass to compact, but it had happened. An unbelievable metamorphosis. With the records they have nowadays, I can't help wondering how Naleat explains it to herself, let alone the authorities, whose job it is to track "vital statistics and records". They must have their work cut out for them, with all the new awakenings.

His hair is a familiar straw blond, his eyes a bright, vibrant sea green. I'm fairly sure they've changed shape. But most immediately noticeable is the way he's dressed almost exclusively in green. I suspect a home-dyeing, because there's something mottled and patchy about the clothing colour. For now, he's wearing a green shirt, and greenish trousers. I have confidence that the rest of the outfit will appear, made _ex nihilo_, by some force neither he nor I can identify. But he's made a makeshift version of the familiar tapering hat.

"I'm not wearing it to class, obviously," he said, rolling his eyes, as he finished climbing the hill. I hadn't realised I was so obvious about where I was looking, and blushed at being _caught_ staring. He smirked at my discomfort, which is familiar, but not a good sort of familiar. It's not _Link_. His metamorphosis is incomplete. I don't need him to tell me that.

There was a moment's silence, as I could almost _hear_ him contemplating what to do. I took an unnecessary deep breath.

"It's good to see you again, Link," I said, with a smile, all proper and prim princess now, as duty requires. Duty, and something else. "I missed you, you know."

He looked down, leant up against the side of the tree, but not the same side _I_ leant against. It was as if he were _there_, but _not there_, and I fought down a pang of…what, grief, premature; sorrow, still; fear that I would be once more forsaken, forgotten?

He took a ragged breath of his own. Turning to look, I could see that his eyes were closed, his head bowed, as if pained. "Yeah," he said, softly. "I missed you, too." He didn't move, as he continued, as if confessing his crimes. "I missed you even before I remembered, you know, but…I didn't know what it was that I was missing. I couldn't put my finger on it. I feel such a fool. I _was_ such a fool."

After how many times I have written just that, it would have been disingenuous to disagree. I said nothing, and let him continue speaking.

His head rose, as he turned to look at me, opening eyes clouded, dark with something I didn't want to identify. Shame? Guilt? The world must be in shreds and tatters, for Link to ever have cause for those emotions. _This world_, I thought in that moment, _is beyond saving, if __**Link**__ can have such a shameful past_. He is the last bastion, the fortress to withstand all that is thrown at it, incorruptible, above censure.

I knew that it would not help to voice these thoughts aloud. Reality had once more been turned on its head; where before always it was he reassuring me, it was now _my_ turn to comfort him.

"You are right," I declared. "You knew no better. You acted in ignorance. You know better, now, and you can atone for anything you ever did to harm anyone by working with me to save the world."

He shook his head, the single most tragic, morose headshake I've ever seen.

"I might not have known all the details," he said, gazing up at me, with his head bowed. "I might not have known who you were. But I saw you. I saw how you treated Farador, and…and, well, I was jealous of him."

I gasped, and my hand flew to my mouth. I hadn't realised; I hadn't thought…I'd assumed, that….

"You—you _saw_ me?"

"I've been watching you for the past month," he said, staring down at his tattered shoes. "I—I wanted you to notice me. I wanted you to like me. But I didn't know how. And Farador—he was so perfect, and so likeable, and I saw you take pity on him, and…oh, I suppose I _hated_ him for that. And that day, when Missus Naleat said that you'd be at the assembly—I had half a notion that that was _you_, and I wanted to get _some_ sort of reaction from you."

And hadn't he just! But Farador had leapt to my defence, as a knight in shining armour. And that had only made matters worse….

"Then," I began, hesitant. "This—this little _war_ you two have been fighting…it's over _me_?" How very _childish_, I thought, even though I am soon to be thirteen again, myself. Link shifted on his feet, and nodded, but couldn't bring himself to look at me. Well!

"I've been such a—such a _Mido_!" he exclaimed, and then glanced around the hill again, as if someone might have snuck up on us, as indeed someone did. Satisfied at our continued privacy, he said, more lowly, "I told you about him, remember. He bullied me all through my childhood. How can I even say anything bad about him, now?"

I frowned, rising to my feet. "I _hardly_ think that that's the same thing." And I didn't, perhaps because Link is always in his own special category for me. Above reproach, as I already said.

Link, of course, knew this, and was thoroughly unimpressed.

"A few years of misbehaviour are nothing next to the good you have done for the world. Perhaps there was an important lesson from the goddesses that you needed to learn—"

"—How it is to be stupid?" he interjected, with a bowed head.

"—no matter what, I'm sure that this will turn out for the best, in time. The goddesses know better than we, after all."

Link is too smart for platitudes to work on him. I had to drag the inscrutable goddesses into my hypothesis. Unfortunately, that gave him cause to resent _them_.

"And is _this_ what the goddesses wish for us, then, Zel?" he asked, sliding down the trunk of the tree into a crouch, as if already the weight of the world bore down on him. I sat down, back as I had been, with my back resting against the tree, and my legs sticking out straight, out of habit from life, lest I muss my skirts. They were immune to dirt, now.

"Do they wish for us to repeat the same few centuries, over and over again, losing ground each time? Is _that_ the fate they've set our world?"

He sounded quite as ill-used as I generally felt. Perhaps it was less of a role reversal, and more that he'd at last lost his _optimism_, his faith that things could be set right. That spark of life, upon which I depended….

"No," I said, even as it occurred to me, "that can't be it. Have you noticed? We're _not_ alone, this time. I'm not speaking of Farador. Have you noticed Malon's hair turning red, the way she scrawls the letter 'M' into her notebooks? Have you seen Ralph out practicing fencing and already sinking into courtly airs? And Impa…oh, Impa…." To my shame, I felt tears forming. This was no way to go about reassuring my hero. I wanted, I needed, to be strong in his moment of need. We were each other's strength, always.

He reached out for me then, bridging a thousand lifetimes, a thousand differences, reconciling the irreconcilable, righting all wrongs. He pulled me into an embrace, let me cry into his shoulder, speaking as if he didn't notice my tears, drowning them out to preserve my dignity.

"They're here? Others? They remember?" he asked, excitement, hope, rekindling in his eyes. Courage. Fortitude. Wisdom is worth little without the Courage to act. "We aren't alone? We aren't alone!"

"Shh! Link," I said, somewhat horrified. "What if someone hears you!"

He gave a short laugh, which sounded rather hoarse and strangled, as if he'd tried to swallow it before it could be given voice. "Oh, they'll just think I'm mad, or too stupid to know better. Talking to myself, you know."

Ouch. What was a deeper cut was that I couldn't find fault with his analysis.

"I'm sorry, Link," I said. It was the most that I could do or say. "I'm sorry that I ever brought you into all of this. _I_ was the one who failed to seal Ganon, after all. If not for me—"

Link shook his head, and finally turned to face me. "It's not your fault, Zelda. I—"

"Zelda?" asked a new voice, and I jumped about a foot in the air, leaping to my feet. We'd forgotten to keep watch, ironically on account of our caution. I stared at the figure halfway down the hill. That is the problem with hills, I suppose: you can't see down the sides that well, when they're as steep as this one. The slope of the hill itself served to block him from view, but in truth, we didn't notice him just because we were preoccupied. We always are, and I tended to forget, anymore, the need for secrecy that Link still has.

He stormed up the hill, and came to a stop several feet from our tree. Despite the purpose and tension, the deliberate jagged movements of his steps, he didn't seem upset. He blinked at the two of us, but of course only addressed Link. I tried to pretend that I wasn't disappointed.

"The girl who's been protecting me with magic—that's _Princess Zelda_?" he asked, with the appropriate amount of awe. I stared down at my hands, clasped in my lap. I said nothing.

Farador rounded on Link, then. "You can speak to her, can't you? You can see her. I always wanted—" He shook his head, cutting himself off. He pointed at Link. "Then you—you're _Link_."

I wondered where he'd come upon that name. The legends speak of Princess Zelda, and Ganon, but they only ever call Link "The Hero". Perhaps it's to pretend that the role could be filled by anyone. Perhaps the name of a hundred commoners who are the same man are naturally lost to time. I don't know.

I crossed my arms over my chest, hugging myself, looking back and forth between the two. Perhaps I'd never met Farador before, in any life. Perhaps he'd never lived before. But he was gentle, and kind, and good. His distress was still a wound to my still healing heart. I turned to Link with a silent plea.

"Uh," he said, clearly at a loss for words, unprepared. There was more than a bit of Bowel in his slow reaction time. He was not the boy I knew, and yet he was. There and not there.

"Is that what you meant, about starting over?" Farador demanded. There was a defeated set to his shoulders, the way his head drooped. I reached out for him, and then stopped myself. Link saw, and gave a sort of half-smile in my direction. A sad smile that was almost a grimace.

"I'm sorry," he said to Farador. "It isn't easy, you know."

He looked down at his shoes, and scuffed them in an old, awkward gesture.

"You _are_!" Farador exclaimed. "I don't _believe_ this."

It was then that I was almost sure that I would be revealing myself to Farador, when the time came. Link could see me now, after all, and Farador was the only other person I valued as much. I dragged myself to my feet, more or less. I turned to Link, again.

"You two are as thick as thieves," I said. "And I'm not talking about Ganondorf, here. Don't you think—?"

In the end, it is always my choice, but what I was really asking was whether or not the two of them could manage to work as a team, whether or not Farador could join our merry little troupe. And beneath all that, the sentiment (ridiculous, and I knew better) that he might learn to recognise me on his own, that perhaps I'd be wasting my one revelation, speaking with him. It is always a terrifying step forward, this choosing, this trust.

Link glanced in my direction, and Farador, who is always quick on the uptake, followed his gaze to my general area. He even reached out a hand for me, as if he couldn't help himself.

He knelt. My hands flew to my mouth. I'm sure I was otherwise gaping like a fish. No one does that anymore. "Let me help you, princess," he said, his voice brimming with sincere fervour. "I'll fight for you. I've been training!"

I managed to remove my hands from my mouth. It almost felt as if I had to drag them away. "Oh, Farador," I whispered. "Thank you so much. You deserve to know what, and whom, you're fighting for."

He couldn't hear me, but Link could. He just sort of stood there, arms akimbo, and then he turned to me, as if for permission.

But then, he just sighed, and bowed his head again. "…She's grateful for your offer, Farador. Maybe I should tell you more about the complexities of…everything. You _are_ coming into this rather late."

I knew that he was giving us, both Farador and me, a chance to back out of this, still.

The school bell rang before Link could really explain anything, but there was a moment, nonetheless, when I could almost feel the stirrings of hope—a new team, a new dawn. Perhaps a new gathering of Sages, even. Perhaps even the warmth of the rising sun at our backs, halfway through the day though it was, and the return of that forgotten feeling, that we could do anything.

It's the strongest I've felt in a long, long time.

~-~Zelda, princess of Hyrule~-~


	14. entry 14

entry 14: 37 Dalir

Well, you must be used to this by now, dear diary. I am not even inclined to apologise any longer. I _did_ say that I was keeping a diary for my own sake, to distract from my own loneliness. If I have been kept busy for the last week, then that is a good thing. Be glad I remembered you at all!

Hmm. No. That sounds too…obnoxious. Impolite. But I'm sure you know what I would tell you: there's only one week left before Third Naming, and Link has explained the situation to Farador. What else could you possibly want to know? I am alone no longer. Link's metamorphosis may be incomplete, yet, but he's well on his way, as are the others. Sometimes, I even think that _they_ see me. I am not inclined to dismiss such sentiments any longer. They are born of despair, after all. Remember when I said that I thought that Bowel could see me, on the hill, and then dismissed it? I wonder how badly you would have laughed at me, diary, were you a person! Well, I shan't make _that_ mistake, again!

I know that I seldom learn from my mistakes. Why else have these events recurred, as Link pointed out (not meaning any harm) a week ago, in much the same way? I should spend the time between his incarnations planning for the war that I know is soon to come, instead of pining, and grieving. You would think I would know better, by now! What is it about grief and loss, that overrule even our best intentions, our better judgement?

Whatever knowledge it is that Link has that I lack, he has yet to recover it. He tells me that his memories are still incomplete, which is only to be expected. His thirteenth birthday doesn't mark the end of his metamorphosis. I am writing to you, today, because it's his birthday. Imagine that! I have been quite unable to get him any gifts, and Farador would not be inclined to do so, even were he still not paying for those library books that Bowel destroyed a month ago. Link winced and offered to pay for them, when the subject was brought up. Farador tactfully didn't ask where he intended to get the funds. They're still being quite civil with each other, but that doesn't make them _friends_.

Still, I can't help thinking that this important milestone was not as special of an occasion as I always wanted for it to be. The celebration of birthdays fall in and out of fashion, and right now, they're a very big deal—especially those surrounding Naming Days. Those important milestone birthdays— five, eight, thirteen. I could tell that Link hadn't expected anyone to celebrate his birthday at all.

It tugged at my heartstrings, and I decided to spend the day with him. Farador is a sweetheart, so he agreed to "hang out" with us, as well. One thing he very much appreciates is his unique standing to talk about what really _did_ happen when _x_. I took a certain pleasure in setting the museum placards (and his textbooks) straight. It is difficult, having to speak through an interpreter, which is what Link has to be. But it is very good, just to have friends, people with whom I can speak (at all), to share my tale, to not be forgotten.

Sometimes, I think I made Link's birthday more about me than about him. He didn't seem to mind, but that is Link all over. I should not have been surprised to find that Link's birthday is during Hesount. It usually is. I think it's because he's drawn to all the new greenery and life. If a soul chooses when to be reborn, I think he'd usually favour that time for just that reason.

It's late at night, and I thought it best not to stay with him until midnight, just for the sake of being there. _He_ said that it _was_ stalkerish for me to follow him around. Well, what does _he_ know? I'm sure he knows that one time I followed him home from school, too. Well, I will prove that I'm _not_ a stalker by sitting here in Farador's classroom, writing in my journal, like a proper princess.

Link had to explain all about his home situation to Farador, who had agreed to keep him company for the day. It arouses less suspicion, when everyone gives Link dirty looks if he wanders around on his own. They aren't much fond of Farador, either, for whatever reason. I feel the need to reiterate: _how_ does anyone not like Farador? I don't mean to say, how does anyone not _like_ him; I mean how is it that anyone _hates_ him, as those roughrider girls do, and gang 3? Bowel's gang, such that he ever had control of it, he has disbanded, but some of them have migrated to gang 3, or Ruhana's gang of roughrider girls. There's only so much anyone can do, I suppose. He did it so quietly that I only recently heard about it, from Farador.

I still haven't revealed myself to him. I wait, because this time seems so different, in so _many_ ways, from all previous ones. Link is different, and there are more awakenings than any of us are aware of. Farador might yet recognise me on his own; I can't help remembering that day, in this very room, when he heard my voice after the roughrider girls attacked him. Suppose the rules have changed entirely?

In a strange way, this change in routine has made the entire process seem new for me, again. Perhaps _that_ was the goddesses' intentions. (although that does sound rather self-centred of me to say, doesn't it?)

We spent the day wandering around town (Link made sure to visit the museum, to set the record straight, as if reading my mind). There was a sort of wistfulness to that part of the day, homage to the past, and it also helped him to remember. It didn't seem to have had that effect last time….

We had to do this, before they changed the placards back. I think I complained at great length about those placards, as I did to you. Link bore it with grace, and even told Farador some of what I said. But I hated to see Farador's eyes alight with _pity_ of all things. I am not to be _pitied_. It only makes everything seem that much more painful, the past further from my grasp.

Neither of them had much money to spend (read: none), and I was the only one who could get in for free in any legal way, to any of the establishments a child might go to on his birthday. Link has a permanent state of quasi-childishness born of so many lifetimes. He _has_ gone through puberty hundreds of times; little about it surprises him, anymore. He is, in some ways, an adult amongst children.

But he's still a child, and…well, as it is his birthday, my form has set itself back to about thirteen, again. It _will_ happen that way. If I were alive, it would take some getting used to, but there's no change in weight, only height, and so many superficial things. And, just as with Link, I'm used to it.

Or, perhaps, our minds also regress. It seems a distinct possibility. Do I seem more childish to you, now? Or…would I, if you were real?

Bother. Perhaps that wasn't the way to go about things.

There aren't many things that you can legally do for free, when you're only in your early teens. Link seemed amused by Farador's determination not to lag behind. We snuck into the museum (and Farador promptly forgot himself, to go back through the records, just as if he were a paying customer). We went to a restaurant, for lunch. (Nothing fancy. Was it called "fast food"?) That was about as much as Link could pay for. I think he might have stolen even that money, but can hardly begrudge him, perhaps _only_ because he's Link.

We went to my park, but that put Link in mind of Lake Hylia, too. He said there have been dungeons beneath the lake, before. I suppose that's something I used to know. Farador seemed intrigued by the very idea. He was intrigued by everything Link said about the past. I think he learnt more in his day wandering around town than he had in the past _year_ in Missus Naleat's class. He was almost like a puppy, following us around, begging for scraps. He is always very eager to learn.

It was a long day—in the best possible way. Link and Farador ditched school, but I don't think anyone was surprised by that, any longer. Missus Naleat despairs of them both, anymore. That's what happens when you decide to defy the system, even if it's the wiser course: everyone thinks you stupid.

I think there's something about that—that I may have had a history of bucking the system, to save the world. I think it's part of the forever repeating history of our world. It saddens me, now, to think of it, but I…. It's strange. I wasn't sad or lonely at all, today. I was happy. I think I forgot how that felt. That's what I mean when I think it was more of a gift for me, than for Link, who had to be on his guard the entire day. And he and Farador had to be quite creative with the rules. They probably shouldn't have snuck onto the archery range, but I suppose the temptation was too much. I wasn't worried, at the time, but now I realise how much could have gone wrong.

Hmm.

Link didn't seem startled when I showed up with a rather different appearance (I'm much shorter, now). He probably remembered that this always happens. And Farador has never seen me, and therefore doesn't know any better. All he'd be able to tell, if he remembers that day as I do, is that my voice is much higher than it had been. Perhaps it's just as well I haven't revealed myself, yet. I keep thinking of all the circumstances where it might be necessary….

I really am a coward, aren't I? Wisdom is nothing without the courage to act. But that courage is almost within my grasp.

Faithfully yours,

~-~Zelda, princess of Hyrule~-~


	15. entry 15

entry 15: 43 Dalir

I regret to say to you, diary, that this is my last entry. I bid you a fond farewell. We shall see what we shall see, and I have much to tell.

Wish me well?

Yesterday was Third Naming, and everyone was in a tizzy. Link created quite as big of a fuss as at his Second Naming. He was amused by it, as was, to my surprise, Farador, who is really coming into his own.

He's not Farador anymore. I must remember that. His name is a unique formation off the word _ashirin_, mystic, and _dir_, beloved. I wonder how long it took him to come up with it.

Link's name _would_ have to be near the end of their list, which I'm fairly sure is chronological by birthday. Farador, now Ashtir, was only a few weeks older than Link. I missed his birthday, which makes me a bad friend. But what would I have done, back then? I think it was during Link and Farador's miniwar.

Anyway, there were nods and smiles for the first ninety percent of the ceremony, or so, everyone all smiles and approbation, for the important boundary rite of passage now-you're-almost-adults nature of the ceremony, which is all of it that anyone cares about anymore.

But perhaps beneath that, they cared about something else, too. Instead of an increased distraction, somnolence, boredom that comes of such a long ceremony continuing on (there were over three hundred participants, which boggles my mind), there was an increasing tension in the air. People began whispering amongst themselves, things like, _were the omens wrong?_ and _where is the hero_?

Because no one knows the hero's name, or no one is supposed to, except for the administrators. No one asked where Zelda was, but I never expected them to. I didn't mind.

Link and Ashtir were far too entertained by proceedings. Since Link's metamorphosis is complete, I am forced to concede that this is something I've learnt about him; he can only endure such asinine ceremonies if there's some sort of secret to bring excitement to them.

He and Ashtir were separated into the two camps of initiated and uninitiated only at almost the very end. When they called his old name, Link smiled, and waved back at me, as if to say _back in a minute_.

He did that a lot. Usually it was before rushing into danger. It was an accurate sentiment only about one percent of the time. Usually because almost nothing takes so little time. Sometimes, because he ended up grievously injured, or dead.

Accordingly, I folded my arms, and wandered after him. I sensed that I would need to intervene on his behalf. Call it intuition, or call it common sense, as clearly Link would need some manner of backup, when few people even believed in the old legends anymore.

Ashtir glanced over in our direction, looking rather wan, but trying to smile. I confess myself curious as to what any of his associates made of his behaviour, if indeed they even noticed.

But the awakened already seemed to know—Malon seemed ready to fangirl at Link. I glared at her. She did not respond. Clearly, _they_ still can't see me. But, perhaps, in time….

The Book of Names might as well have been the Pedestal of Time for Link's trepidation approaching it—a completely justified sort of wariness, as if he might be attacked at any moment. He dipped the quill in ink, scratched out his old name, and wrote in the new one. In _Ancient Hylian_, no less, I noted. He gave me a little grin, and shook his head to go back to his seat.

"You are required to state your name before the Assembly," the mayor said. He is one of those boring people whose voices are like the buzzing of bees, who always wears three-piece suits. I had never seen him in person before, but he was the single least-impressive person I've ever seen. Makes me wonder how he was elected. Perhaps he used to have a personality.

_These_ are the sorts of people who rule in my stead?

"You want my name?" Link demanded, a certain strength to his voice that hadn't been there a month ago. He just stared back, taking a stand. "My name is Link Avalet."

There was a great clamour that arose at this news, because the mystics always know, but other than them, only those in the highest positions of authority. They _knew_, and were quite as distressed by it as Link's last choice of name.

"You don't like it? That's too bad," he said, spreading his hands wide. Ashtir facepalmed in the background.

Link was making quite the scene, which ability is a recent development. Usually he comes in when everything is quiet, and quietly changes the world, which acknowledges this fact publicly only after all is said and done.

"_Link_," I groaned, as if that would do me any good. The magistrates were so convinced that this had to be a mistake—no way was _Bowel_ even the "fictional" national hero, reborn—that they'd called in the guards. Well, I suppose that's not what they're called, now, but it will do.

Ashtir looked from the podium to the Assembly, and made his choice. He climbed back over the dividing gate to join Link and me at the podium.

"I can fight my own battles, you know," Link said to Ashtir, not unkindly. "You needn't put yourself in danger."

"I offered to help you save the world," said Ashtir, voice very stiff. "I mean to make good on that."

I ignored the both of them to expand a wave of fire outwards, as the audience, Assembly included, gasped at the blatant use of magic. Sorry to violate your narrow worldviews, everyone. Oh, don't worry, diary, it wasn't a _strong_ wave of fire. Everyone knows that my people have a natural lowgrade resistance to heat.

Except maybe not you? Oops, perhaps I should have mentioned that.

"Farador, what are you doing?" called out his mother's anxious voice. Ashtir bowed his head, looking down. She couldn't be blaming him for _my_ actions, could she? In retrospect, it's as likely as not. But Ashtir had taken his place with us, which was also a potential reason for her distress.

The guards took a collective step backwards, and Link glanced at me. "Uh…doesn't that seem a bit overkill to you, Zel?" he asked.

"He can see the princess?" asked one of the mystics.

"She defends him," said another. These might be the only remnants of our priest class. It left a sour taste in my mouth, the thought that I might have to fight them, but Link's safety was paramount. He would not die before our quest had even begun, not at the hands of those whom he was sworn to protect.

"Stand down," called out a mystic dressed all in red. "If he wishes to claim the title of the Hero, then he must be given fair judgement."

"_Do_ you wish to claim the title of the Hero?" asked one in pale blue. I suppose he was hoping that it was all an unfortunate coincidence.

Another would have scoffed at the idea, one who knew what Link did, as _only_ he did. But that has never been Link.

He stepped forwards, instead. "Yes. I'm ready for whatever trials await."

And anyone who knew Bowel would have known that the word "trials" was too advanced for him.

It occurred to me, for a moment, that if there were three of us—if we were to be a party of three—that the roles naturally fell into only two familiar niches. The first one was out, as I intended to accompany Link, myself, as I always had since my death. That was the role of double wisdom, Link and his advisor, and I.

The other role was more distasteful. _Power_, Wisdom, Courage. Could it be that the goddesses had chosen a hero of power to help combat the villain of that same aspect? That was the most hopeful outcome. I tried to err on the side of hope.

"Come with us, then," said the red mystic.

"This is an outrage!" shouted someone in the crowd.

"This ceremony is long enough without making a cheap production of it!" said a man somewhere lower down in the stands.

"What do I do, Link?" asked Ashtir, glancing around the room, right through me.

Link glanced at me, and then turned to Ashtir. "Stay here, for now. I appreciate your support, but this is something I must do alone. That includes you, Zel. Please, make sure they don't do anything…drastic, about your friend."

He let them lead him away, and left me to protect Ashtir. I have been doing it for months, but it has been a long time since I have done, knowing what I now know.

They had little interest in Ashtir, except for his parents, who persisted in being unjustly angry and worried, muttering about how clearly Link had been a bad influence on him, driving their son to the bad. As I believe I said earlier: they united against him, as parents will.

"Have you gone then, Your Highness?" asked Ashtir, glancing around the room, shaking and pale, despite that the guards had no interest in him. I hesitated to make any sort of response, however, and he must have understood (he is smart), because he gave a sort of grimace, gaze flicking constantly around the room. It was _hours_ before he relaxed, and that was when Link at last returned.

* * *

"They took me to what they claimed was the Triforce of Courage," Link said, leaning back against the tree. You know, The Tree. Ashtir was listening with rapt attention, as is his wont.

"'They claimed'?" I repeated. "Wasn't it, then?"

"What, do you mean it was a fake?" asked Ashtir, at much the same time. Link glanced back and forth between us, and unfolded his arms, straightening up.

"That's just right, Fa—I mean, Ashtir." He shook his head, but there's always a period of adjustment after Naming. Farador might have done us the kindness of telling us what name he'd been planning to take, _before_ the ceremony. I think it would have helped _me_ to remember. "They only _claimed_ that it was the Triforce. I think that that was part of their test, to be honest. And the other part is whether or not I can find the real thing on my own. I've an idea of where to look, even."

They'd let him go, I realised, because Link had seen the "Triforce of Courage", and rejected it. That must have proven the reality of his words…or at least given them pause enough to give him an extension.

"You're sure that it was a fake?" I asked, unable to keep the anxiety from my voice. "I mean, perhaps it doesn't resonate as strongly with you, after…."

It had to be said, but it still made me feel as if I were the scum of the earth. Imagine me throwing something like that back in his face!

He bowed his head. "I know the Triforce, Zel. It was a fake. Haven't you noticed that even the Triforce of Power has its own sort of…I dunno, energy to it? Ganon can sense the proximity of the Triforce of Wisdom, because it has a different sort of feel to it. And the Triforce of Courage…. Well, all of those feelings are muted when they're hidden inside a living body, but outside of it? Trust me, Zel. I've spent enough time with the Triforce of Courage to recognise it from a fake."

"What do they feel like?" asked Ashtir, who can be depended upon to ask such questions. He's curious about _everything_.

Link was kind enough to give it some thought, and an answer. "The Triforce of Power is full of a kind of angry heat, I think. It could just be Ganon, though. I haven't had that much experience with it when it wasn't attached to him. But the Triforce of Wisdom is the exact opposite—sort of a chilly calm." I held up my right hand, staring at the faint markings of the triple triangle, the way the bottom left triangle was filled in.

I'd lost it when I'd died, of course, because the dead can't wield the Triforce. It's why Ganon killed me to begin with. But it's been in my possession for so long that I consider it a part of my identity, and a connection to it lingers.

I think when I died, Link managed to save it. If not, he recovered it later. Once he has the Triforce of Courage, he always seeks for the Triforce of Wisdom next. But this time…perhaps Ashtir…?

"And the Triforce of Courage?" asked he, focused as always. Link shrugged, glancing at the ground.

"It's…steady," he said. "I don't know a better word for it. It's not _impassive_, like the Triforce of Wisdom, or _passionate_, like the Triforce of Power. It's a steadying, stabilising influence. But it hums with energy, as if it's connected with everything that lives. It doesn't work the same as the other Triforces."

"Wow," said Ashtir, drinking in even this small amount of information.

"Now what do we do?" I asked. "You need to find the Triforce of Courage. Ganon will start seeking for it the moment he learns that you're alive! He knows the barriers around it will only fall in your lifetime—"

He's always been jealous of those barriers. None such protect the Triforce of Power—Ganon himself is sufficient barrier. But it ensures that the Triforce never leaves his hand.

"I know where it is," Link said. Ashtir stared, mouth ajar, and Link gave a sheepish sort of smile. "I mean, I've been thinking. Where else would you hide such an important artefact but in a museum?"

And it's just the sort of stupid thing they would do, too.

"'The museum'?" repeated Ashtir, with no small amount of horror. "You mean, that place we went to in Missus Naleat's class?"

It had been so close! I hadn't even considered that the mystics weren't guarding it under lock and key. How _stupid_ of me!

"Don't look so worried," Link said. "We'll just have to break into the museum, tonight, and find it."

* * *

Which was not half as much of an adventure as it sounded. Still, it must have been the first time I'd ever been there when Link acquired the Triforce of Courage. I think. Okay, maybe not.

It was actually a very boring raid. I don't know what I was expecting—a horde of moblins and stalfoi, led by Ganon himself, to intercept us? The police ordering us to _stop, you're under arrest_? The greatest risk was of Link or Ashtir injuring themselves on some of the old weapons they had in storage. It was dark in the museum, which was watched only by security guards. Link told me he's had plenty of practice sneaking through more heavily-guarded places. I believe him.

Ashtir had no such experience to fall back on, but he didn't hold us back _that_ much. And I'm glad that he came, because he recognised the Master Sword, hanging on the wall, at a glance. All that time studying paid off for him. He pointed at it with a shaking finger, saying,

"Is—is that…?"

Link whirled around, doubtless alarmed by the tremor in Ashtir's voice. "You found the _Master Sword_?" he demanded, and backtracked to where it hung on the wall. No one can wield the blade, or handle it long, but Link, which meant that it was probably part of the test. The mystics will hear that it had gone the same night as the Triforce, and _know_. Suppose Ashtir _hadn't_ been there to show it to us?

Link grabbed it by the hilt, and _yanked_. Plaster flaked from the wall, and a good amount of woodchips. The sword, sheathed in a blue and gold scabbard, came off the wall into his hands, and he stared at it, smiling brightly, as if reunited with an old friend. He drew the sword, and studied the length of it, which we could see by the blue glow of the blade itself. He raised the tip of it towards the roof of the museum, and it cast a dim glow onto our surroundings. He glanced my way, and I placed my right hand over his on the hilt.

His hand felt solid, but there was a sort of sense of solidness beneath even that, as if I would be able to touch the sword itself. The Master Sword has always been an artefact of great mystery.

Link grinned at me, and then sheathed the sword with a thoughtless ease. There was no bandolier. He'd have to make do, or buy one, or make his own. Or steal one. I wasn't about to judge.

Perhaps it would come with the hero's outfit, whenever that appears.

Ever since our arrival, he'd wandered the back room of the museum (and it had been alarmingly easy to break in, I might add), as if drawn by a particular familiarity, as if, as I remain connected to the Triforce of Wisdom, despite my death, Link had likewise remained connected to the Triforce of Courage.

It was in a small room, almost an alcove, with little else besides, other than old manuscripts. They'd put it on a lectern instead of a book, and it lit the entire room with a bright, greenish light.

He didn't glance back at us, Ashtir and me, instead switching the Sword into his more awkward right hand, to reach out to touch the Triforce with his left.

A flash of bright white light followed, so bright that I closed my eyes, as if they still needed protection, opening them only when the room darkened once more.

The lectern was empty. Link stared at the back of his hand, and I looked at the back of my right hand, where the symbol of the Triforce was glowing, white, for the moment.

This was it. Ganon would have felt it, too. It would take him a few months to build up to it, but then he'd start sending monsters our way. If we can find the Triforce of Wisdom, however…well, with even just Ashtir wielding it, we might stand a chance. He's written his parents a note, explaining as little as he can about his extended quest. They care about him, but they would never understand. They showed that well enough at Third Naming.

We're going to see the mystics at the Temple of Time tomorrow. Wish us luck, Diary?

And if we fail…I suppose I'll come back to tell you about it.

Yours truly,

~-~Zelda, Princess of Hyrule~-~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> launcher-fic rules:  
Go ahead and continue this fic! But:  
1\. keep the characters in character  
2\. keep the ship LinkxZelda  
3\. keep the language and violence, etc. at their current ratings


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